Late Night Chat
by BecauseHeroesNeverDie
Summary: Some weird late night chat between Dipper and Stan- I wanted to get in on this post sock opera fluff business. Reposted from my tumblr.


Dipper stumbled into the kitchen. He rubbed at his eyes and immediately regretted it. Great, the stinging was flaring up again.

"Ugh," he groaned as tears welled up in his eyes. They spilled over as he dragged himself to the refrigerator. He ignored them and eased the door open. The coolness that brushed against his face almost made up for the increased burning in his eyes as he stared into the light. He grabbed the bread, butter, and water pitcher and turned to the table, kicking the door closed with his foot.

"Up a little late, aren't you, kiddo?" Stan sat in his regular seat, as if it was not three in the morning and he hadn't been sitting in the near-dark for Moses knew how long.

"What the heck are you doing in here, Grunkle Stan?" Dipper jumped at the sound of another voice. The plastic butter container hit the floor with a disheartening plop. He rushed forward to dump his stash on the table, then turned his attention to the fallen butter. The lid was cracked a little, but he thought it could be managed. Maybe he could fish an old lid out of the recycling.

"I was going to ask you that," his great uncle looked down at him, one eyebrow raised. He crossed his arms and seemed to be attempting what he saw as a parental stance. Dipper wasn't particularly impressed.

"Just getting something to eat. Growing kids need food and all that, which you wouldn't know because you don't even want to feed us," Dipper covered his mouth. He hadn't even said that last part under his breath like he'd wanted to. "Uh, sorry."

"You know what, it's fine. I can't take care of you kids right," he sighed, bending down to pick up the butter and plunking it down on the table. "Uh, y'know what? I should be the one saying sorry to you…"

Dipper didn't know how to respond so he busied himself with the twist tie on the bread.

"We need to talk about what happened last week," Stan continued in his best no-nonsense adult voice.

Dipper shivered involuntarily. He pulled out a slice of bread and dumped it on the surface of the table, as if it wasn't covered in pig drool, glitter, and remnants of Mabel juice. He hoped Stan didn't notice his hands shaking.

"What do you- what- I-?" Stan raised a hand to stop him.

"What you did was dangerous and irresponsible. There's really no better way to say it. We were worried about you," Stan looked around nervously, as if it were a crime to imply that he might care about his family. "Mabel was crying in the ER."

She hadn't told him that. By the time he'd regained consciousness, she was her regular, shouty, Mabel self. She'd dashed into the room, pushing a get well card and a stuffed deer into his arms. He knew it wasn't part of her collection, so she must have got it at the hospital gift shop with her own allowance money. Or maybe Stan bought it? No way.

"What are you getting at?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Look, kid, I'm gonna say this as simply as possible: we care about you a lot and don't want to see you get hurt," Stan folded his legs and sighed again, "Do you know how badly that play thing could have gone?"

"Yes," Dipper mumbled. Of course he knew. He'd been having nightmares about it all week. Ones with cracked glasses and bloodied sweaters. He sucked in a breath, trying to stanch the current of panic that threatened to drown him. As long as he didn't let himself imagine the bodies…

"Now, I've got a deal for you," Stan leaned forward, snatching up a slice of bread and taking a bite.

There was no way to hide it; he flinched at those words. He was calculating how fast he would have to be to make it to the nearest toilet or trashcan. Maybe he could throw up in the sink. He stared at the faucet, trying to regain some sense of something. Anything but the roiling in his stomach or the burning lines that started running down his cheeks or the sweat staining his shirt.

"Are you okay, kid?"

Dipper nodded numbly, wiping at his eyes, "I-I'm just- my eyes are sore… Allergies?"

"Look, I won't press you but… here's the thing. I told your parents you had heat exhaustion and dehydration with some sleep deprivation. You and I both know it was a lot worse than that. And I suspect that there was something paranormal going on."

"You lied to mom and dad?"

"They wouldn't've believed me."

"You don't even know what happened. You didn't notice!"

"Of course I noticed," there was something raw in his voice that made Dipper freeze. "I was ready to do something but it all went so fast and- you know what? I'm terrible at this. I- I'm the worst guardian. Letting my stupid kids get themselves into shit and doing nothing…"

"So what's the deal?" Dipper tried to push the conversation to a place where he wasn't afraid that Stan would start crying. Which was just too weird.

"I- Alright, then," he took a breath to steady himself and rubbed surreptitiously at one eye, "You answer a couple questions and I won't tell your parents how bad it was."

"How many questions?"

"Two," Stan replied firmly. The way he said it made it sound like he'd planned this part, Dipper noted.

"So, let's get started."

"Dipper, have you- have you been… hurting yourself on purpose?"

"What?" Dipper blinked. He'd been prepared for a wide range of questions that could be classified as not at all that one. He picked at a growing hole in the hemline of his shorts.

"No," he answered after a long pause. "Second question."

"Do you want to?" Dipper's heart pounded in his ears and something warm started to creep up his throat. He swallowed, reaching for the water. Stan leaned over the counter and snatched a mug off the drying rack. He poured water in and handed it to him with a weak smile. Dipper took a long sip, trying to get chase away the bitter tang, drinking past the point where it became uncomfortable. He resurfaced when the water was gone and his lungs reminded him that breathing was a thing he had to do.

"I don't know," were the most honest words he could muster. He tore his bread slice into strips, finding he no longer had any desire to eat.

"Depression runs in the family," Stan remarked somewhat uncomfortably, rubbing at his glasses with a cloth he'd produced from his pocket. "We can get you help."

"I need… help?" Dipper's voice shook. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. "What's wrong with me?"

"Guess it's my turn to say I don't know. I'm scared for you, kid. You go out into the woods looking for stuff you know could kill you-"

"That's not why-"

"I know, but it's… terrifying the way you… don't really care about yourself."

"I-" He was wrong, but Dipper couldn't think of any way to argue against this point. He was almost glad when Stan interrupted him.

"Dipper, you barely sleep, you haven't had a shower in weeks, and you suddenly have to go to the hospital with all these cuts on your arms. Do you know what I thought? What your parents would think if they saw your hospital reports?"

"I-I-" Tears started pouring down his face like a midsummer rainstorm. He dabbed at his eyes with the corner of his shirt.

"But I'm not gonna show them. As you know, I'm good at shaking off paper trails," Stan winked at him and started to get up. He stretched, awkwardly delaying his departure. "You don't have to tell me what happened, but you can, if you want to."

"Uh, thanks," Dipper wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor. Stop crying, you dumb little kid. He felt like he should be relieved that Stan didn't want to grill him about last week. But he wasn't.

A wrinkled hand pushed a ratty handkerchief into his hands. He rubbed the cloth against his cheek, surprised by how soft it was. He turned it over in his hand, to get a good look. It was a fluffy lime green scrap of fabric with little dollar signs embroidered in each corner.

He squeaked in surprise when he felt arms wrap around his shoulders. He trembled, fighting the urge to pull away. Instead, he pulled his arms around his great uncle. He smelled like sweat and old man perfume with a whiff of Mabel's glitter body gel. He let out a tiny snort, unsurprised that Stan used the stuff when he couldn't be bothered to shell out cash for a new bar of soap. He was also pretty sure they sold some local stuff in the gift shop that he could just steal. Mabel would laugh when he told her later.

"I, uh, I love you, kid." The words came out of nowhere and neither of them knew what to do with them.

Dipper's response was to start crying even more. He just couldn't stop. He was sure he was currently beating the falls tonight, as far as water pressure went. Choked by tears and phlegm, he remained silent.

"Please don't die." It was delivered with a nervous chuckle, as if it were a joke.

They stood awkwardly for a moment more. It was much nicer than he would have expected it to be, but he was on edge from being so close to another person for so long. He slipped out of the arms surrounding him and stared up at Stan.

"I'll try," he said, trying to exude confidence. A small smile played across his lips.

"Good," Stan nodded. He frowned and his eyes drifted up to the ceiling. "Go to sleep. Also, you're not allowed to work tomorrow. Get up whenever."

"What about your free labor?" Dipper handed him back his handkerchief.

"Pretty sure there are laws against it," Stan shrugged, "I have to give you a day off once in a while, right? So the cops don't cotton on to me."

"Oh, I see. This is an elaborate ruse," Dipper's voice was still unsteady, but he was able to join in on the jest. He'd been wondering if he'd forgotten how to joke. Good to know he wasn't completely lost yet.

"You solved the mystery, kid. They'll give you a medal, I tell ya," Stan grinned, ruffling his hair, "You deserve it."

"Just you wait," Dipper promised, starting to scale the stairs. "One of these days."

"'Night, kiddo." The light just over the oven snapped off.

"'Night."

_Writer's woes: reposted from my tumblr (bronysnape). I have a bunch of ideas for fic but school. _


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